


plastic fireworks

by WonderAss



Series: golden spun, sunk so deep and we're undone [2]
Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Drama, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jaggie - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, References to Canon, Slice of Life, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 13:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21393298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: She lost her mother. He nearly lost his.To be without someone is to feel the potential of everything, slung over one shoulder in a knapsack that's always too heavy. Jackson is thrilled to spend some much-needed bonding time with Maggie and Harriet, but he finds himself troubled by the everything shadowing his girlfriend's steps.
Relationships: Jackson Avery/Margaret "Maggie" Pierce
Series: golden spun, sunk so deep and we're undone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547635
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	plastic fireworks

**Song Inspirations:** "Love Again" by Ta-Ku (ft. JMSN & Sango) + "Ocean" by Adria Kain

*

_give it time, give it time _

_'cause this ain't no race, no _

_you'll be fine, you'll be fine, girl _

_do whatever it takes _

*

Strawberries rinsed off? Check.

A conveniently relaxing album playing on loop from his Spotify playlist? Check.

Enough grocery store beauty supplies, animated films _and_ board games to keep the three of them busy for hours while still tuckering the toddler out in time for bed? Check, check and check. He's got ninety-nine problems, but being out of practice putting together a playdate is _not_ one of them.

Jackson knits his arms together and takes a moment to survey the controlled chaos strewn on the living room coffee table, sofa and floor. It's not the fanciest set-up in the world, but that's the point. If it looks natural, it'll _feel_ natural. He has an entirely new appreciation for psychology ever since signing up at the Minoff Mindfulness Center. Harriet is oblivious to his coordinated disarray, humming to herself from where she sits in her pink scrubs and pink tutu. It's the longest favorite color she's had, and therefore, only a matter of time until he refurbishes the walls in her honor.

His rosy-cheeked princess, pink through and through.

Jackson mulls over finishing touches as he pulls out the cutting board and the best knife for dicing the strawberries. The weather hasn't _quite_ been cold enough to turn on the fire, and yet, something about the apartment feels empty unless it's flickering orange in the corner of his vision. Centuries of psychological research was one thing, but old habits died hard.

"Try not to make a mess on the floor, okay, sweetheart?" Jackson calls over the _chp-chp_ of knife on wood. "We'll get started..." He glances at his phone. Nada. "...soon, okay?"

Harriet doesn't respond, instead switching her internal playlist and humming a tune that _might_ be from Moana and _might_ be from Frozen. Princess movies are starting to blur together at this point.

"When's Mags coming?" She says, apropos of nothing. "I'm really, _really_ hungry."

Jackson grins, waving her over and handing her a fresh strawberry. That nickname's such a small detail, but it makes everything come together as neatly as a fireplace. Harriet started calling Maggie 'Mags' after she, appropriately, brought her fashion magazines as a gift last month. His little girl has since turned them into a thousand scrapbooking projects, as well as a pun she's _very_ proud of.

"_Very_ soon. I promise." He says as he turns back and piles on the blackberries and blueberries. He'd rather not wait any longer to start making something. Cranky Harriet could be difficult to wrestle out of her funk. "Actually, can you go double-check the table and make sure it's set? Then you'll have all the tasty breakfast food you can eat."

Harriet lets out an impatient little huff, sets her surgeon Barbie on the counter by his hand and promptly trots off to finish the chore. Jackson can't help but smile to himself as he nibbles on the corner of a strawberry.

No matter how hard he spoiled her, she remained a good kid. April was the more..._rigorous_ of the both of them, he'll admit. She was more likely to make sure Harriet was doing everything in a structured manner (her old-fashioned working-class, church-going roots, no doubt). He, on the other hand, was of the opinion that _too_ much structure was depriving her of the point of being a kid. She already had enough of structure just going to school and piano practice. Home should be a place for her to just be silly. To play.

His bubbly mood dips a little at the thought, in-between grabbing the cinnamon and whisking the French toast mix. It's...one of _many_ details they've butted heads about this year.

His only saving grace is not having to face his ex-wife for more than a few hours a month. Maybe it's something he could bring to his next therapy session. He'd much rather pretend these frustrated rows over the phone never _happened_, but he's been told more than once he's a compartmentalizing master. By April, by his therapist, even Webber at one point. Jackson sighs and pulls out his phone (still no update from Maggie) and starts punching in a quick memo in his notepad. Day. Time. Trigger. He adds an addendum that _maybe_ some of his resistance comes from his mother's highly controlling upbringing, and leaves it at that.

Baby steps. For him _and_ his little princess.

Tossing the fruit into the honey-syrup mix -- as well as the bright sizzle of apple sausages once they're laid to pan -- creates a delicious distraction from the moody spiral. Homemade brunch is the delight of the week. Last time they got together it was soul food, and _phew_, he'd been so rusty at that it would've given his mother a heart attack. Despite having to read up on a recipe (or two), the end result had been addicting: the sight of Maggie and Harriet's happy faces over plates of mac and cheese, chicken and greens, laughing with each other over a game of Scrabble...God. All he could think about for days afterwards was that...that homely, happy _glow_.

Jackson glances over his shoulder. The table looks good. Harriet somehow snuck her surgeon Barbie off the counter without him noticing, bouncing the toy up and down over a makeshift fort of pillows on the sofa. From what his ears can catch beneath the music she's muttering a story that sounds like a rescue mission-in-progress.

"Everything okay there?" He calls, flipping the sausages to the other side. Harriet puffs out her cheeks and makes a sound he _thinks_ is supposed to mimic an explosion.

"The truck was hit by a big, big, big _comet_." A flung pillow punctuates her statement, sending the pillow fort sprawling. "Now she has to be pulling all the patients out of the big hole before they _burn._"

He's...pretty sure Disney movies didn't teach her that, but he was also guilty of telling her in lavish detail his daring escape from a falling star (and watching late-night dramas with her 'sleeping' on his chest). Jackson reaches over and flicks on the coffee maker. His idea for the get-together was beef kebobs, but Harriet had all but _begged_ on the way home from school for French toast. Ha, he turned to butter whenever she put on that voice. Not unlike April, back in the day. Before their relationship crumbled just like that pillow fort tower, when the mere sight of her red hair had his proverbial heels digging into the ground on principle.

Jackson pops open a bag of his favorite Ethiopian blend, digs the cup in for a scoop...then pauses. Maybe he should bring that up in his next session.

A sharp _rap-rap_ on the door jolts him back to reality. He tosses the beans into the grinder, turns it on, then practically skips over to the front door to fling it open. A wispy pink blouse and flushed face greets him.

"Hey! I'm _so_ sorry for not texting you, my phone chose the perfect time to die on me." Maggie pushes her bangs out of her eyes and attempts to stand up fully. She's carrying a heavy grocery bag and her coat under one arm, her (dead) phone in the other hand. It's obvious by her breathing she jogged a block or two. "I'm not late, am I?"

"No, no, not at all." Jackson clenches his teeth in a wince. "I mean...a _little_, but she was asking for you all this morning, so. You would've been late no matter what."

Maggie tries and fails not to laugh. Her eyes twinkle with that same light he sees whenever she's with Mer's kids, a doting auntie affection that makes his heart flip-flop. God, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been feeling Harriet's impatience since they set the schedule. He promptly reaches out to relieve her of her load, which she also tries (and fails) to refuse him. By the looks of it she got toys, cookies and a bundle of something he can't quite make out.

"Oh, geez. That's a lot to live up to." She leans forward and pecks him on the cheek. "Thanks."

Jackson tosses her coat over his shoulder so he can sneak a hand around her waist and kiss her properly. She's wearing a silky lip gloss today, a hint of red that tastes like cherries. His heart curls sweetly when she hooks fingers in his shirt, letting him slip in just a little tongue before pushing him back.

"Woah, hey." Now she's breathless for a different reason, and he's got a completely different appetite. Jackson sneaks in another kiss near the corner of her mouth, right where her dimple pops out. "I need to make up for lost time."

"In _every_ sense of the word..." He murmurs, stealing a shameless glance south as he shuts the door behind them. Maggie doesn't indulge him further, flinging a mischievous look over her shoulder before making a beeline to Harriet. It couldn't be more clear the girl has already filed her into auntie territory. She drops her Barbie and jumps right into her arms, squeaking with excitement.

"_Harry!_" Maggie growls affectionately. "Oh, how's my little curly-haired witch?"

"We're gonna have breakfast for lunch and play _all_ day." Harriet flashes a chubby smile, popping out a strawberry stain on her cheek. "We have French toast. You can have all the strawberries you want. Daddy got so many. They're huge."

"Oh my _gosh_." Maggie gasps. "I want a whole _house_ full of strawberries."

There's the other nickname: straight from Harry Potter, Harriet's favorite book besides Raising Dragons and the Junie B. Jones series. He has Maggie to thank for the former. Her memory for that series is so sharp she could probably recite the whole thing word-for-word like the world's prettiest living Kindle novel. Harriet's on full-speed now as she catches up, half-talking with her hands. It's something she's picked up this year and he enjoys seeing every time.

"I found a big, _big_ one that looks like a heart!"

"Wow. How do you know it's not a _real_ heart?"

"It's not a heart, it's a strawberry." Then she blinks, doubtfully, and looks to him. "Is it?"

Talk about a perfect segue. An Avery, through and through. Jackson sidles into the conversation proper with a firm kiss on both of their cheeks, gesturing to the arrangement on the coffee table.

"We'll have to take another look and find out. Two houses of strawberries, coming right up. Until then, we've got _all_ the fixings." Jackson takes a step back and shakes jazz hands at what Harriet likes to call the 'fun basket'. "We've got...The Princess And The Frog, Home, Lilo & Stitch. All the finest animated entertainment for the growing artistic mind."

Maggie purses her lips and casts a slow, critical eye over the pile.

"But do you have Into The Spider-Verse?"

Jackson raises his eyebrows, slips a hand into the basket and tugs out the (still-unopened) DVD. Maggie grins from ear-to-ear.

"_Nice._"

"Oh, you don't have to worry. It's the special-edition, too. We'll be up all night just watching this one." Harriet squeals on cue, about how she wants to watch every last one. He holds up a finger. "Ah, ah, not yet. We've _also_ got make-up kits. Eyeshadow, lipstick, nail polish..."

Jackson starts to pull out the make-up wipes, then trails to a stop at Maggie's expression. A faded, haunted look he couldn't miss if he tried.

"...did I...buy the wrong brands?" He asks, slowly. Maggie blinks. She shakes herself visibly and smiles, bright as a spotlight.

"No! No, that's...great. It's all great. Way more than I thought possible, actually. You even got mascara."

Jackson scoffs and leans back, hand on his hip.

"Come on. I was raised by Catherine _Fox_. She didn't exactly let me forget all the hard work she puts into being the most famous and public surgeon in the West."

Maggie doesn't respond. He sees it again. That sort of..._dimness_, flickering behind her smile.

"...Right." She says, and gives Harriet a fond shake. "Right?"

Harriet wriggles and squirms to be let down. Once her feet touch the carpet she immediately takes Maggie's fingers and tugs, babbling about her favorite Stitch toy and comets and food. Maggie goes right along, as easy as anything. They settle in-between the coffee table and the couch to start spreading out all the goodies in the basket one-by-one. Jackson leans against the wall and watches. Wow. He really thought he'd never get the chance to feel it. This...soupy, warm, swelling right in the pit of his sternum, of family and peace nestled in one tender place.

It's more acute than any mixed drink he's thrown back to the hoots and cheers of colleagues. Huge and _whole_ and swathed around his shoulders in a blanket he never wants to shake. The thing is, children were always a thing with him. Always a thing in _general_, with the Avery family eternally keen on creating successors. He knew his time to be a father would come, sooner or later. But that it came like _this?_ After all the curveballs and the heartache and the mess? He really hadn't though it possible. That it either wouldn't have arrived, or he wouldn't have pieced himself together enough to love it properly.

Maybe breaking and splitting had allowed something to bleed through. Something...good. Jackson doesn't realize he's smiling until he scratches an itch on his chin, and even then, he can't stop. Not even when they both look at him, Maggie's head cocked and Harriet scrunching up her nose.

"Daddy, what's funny?"

"Nothing, sweetheart."

Maggie's eyes sparkle beneath her bangs. For all that she kept calling him starry-eyed, her gaze was always a twinkle-pop _he_ was trying to capture. She offers him no further clue as to what she's thinking. Instead she waits patiently for Harriet to look up, then catches her gaze and whispers conspiratorially:

"I think he's jealous, Harriet. Jacks-er, _Dad_ wants to try out your new make-up kit, too."

Oh, boy. Jackson makes a hasty _nah, that ain't it_ gesture at his throat, but his daughter is already bouncing on her knees and squealing her agreement.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah! I wanna do it, you can do it, too, after me. Then you, Daddy."

Phew, two against one. Jackson spreads out his hands apologetically.

"Ah, sweetheart, I can't. I have to cook, see? Clean hands for clean food."

"You can wear doctor gloves so there's no mess!"

_Phew_, she's crafty. Maggie has her free hand to her mouth, laughter muffled into a very unconvincing cough. Jackson shoots her a look, then holds up his hands again.

"Fair point. How about this...after lunch we can doll up each other's faces. Okay?"

A tiny storm brews on Harriet's face, starting from the very top of her brow and crumpling all the way down to her chin.

"But I _really_ want to."

Harriet has April's tenacity. Once she latches onto something, she doesn't let go. Maggie is smart as a whip. She covers her mouth and gasps, loudly enough to turn the girl's head.

"_Oh!_ I totally forgot...if _you're_ going to be doing my eyeshadow, who's going to help me with my blush?"

Harriet promptly whips a hand up in the air, like she's in class.

"Me! Me, me, I can."

She bends over and proceeds to finish her work, sticking her tongue out as she prods the brush into the blush cake. Maggie mouths, "_Sorry_." over her curls. Jackson stifles his laugh and mouths back, "_Thank you_."

By the tang in the air, the sausages are just about done. He hasn't started the coffee yet, though, and the fruit mix is still on the counter. Jackson tells Alexa to lower the volume, then rolls up his sleeves. The song's good, but listening to his girlfriend and daughter talk is even better. That same soupy sensation comes back full force as he turns down the stove, then grinds the coffee beans, a sweetness so thick and heady he actually feels drunk.

"There's a boy in my class who said you can't have breakfast for dinner or lunch. He's got really boring parents. They're _lawyers_. They make _rules_."

"Yeah, lawyers are a little boring. Not like doctors. Ooh, careful, sweetie. Don't want to poke out my eye before breakfast."

"Sorry!"

Jackson scoffs a laugh through his nose, pouring the coffee into the French press and pouring the water. _That'd_ be something to explain to the posse.

"Doctors are cool. Then he said he eats Cheerios for breakfast. The dry ones, without honey. My mom hates those. She says they're gross."

Sausages are done. He trickles the excess oil out of the pan, then pulls out plates.

"Yeah, they're not the best. I actually don't eat a lot of cereal, I like breakfast burritos better." There's a short pause. "Wow, you did a great job! The pink matches my shirt."

"Ooh, ooh! Paint my nails."

Jackson wipes down the sausage pan, then puts it back on and greases it up. His mouth is watering so hard it hurts. He's pulling out the eggs when he realizes Maggie hasn't responded. He idly wonders if she's choosing a color that'll match her outfit. She was always so coordinated with her looks. Even her most casual ensemble looked like something out of...well, a fashion magazine. Just from what he's hard, Harriet clearly picked up a thing or two from her.

"Oh, that's okay." Maggie eventually says, in a voice so much smaller than he's ever heard it. "I don't...need my nails painted."

"_Pleeease?_ You can pick your favorite color."

Jackson tilts his ear toward the living room, then startles when the oil on the pan spurts. He jumps back, then reaches into one of the drawers for a lid.

"...Okay." He hears Maggie respond, after another gap that stretches on a few seconds too long. "Um...how about pink?"

"I _love_ pink."

It's...an odd tone she's taking, but he can't quite place why. Now that he thinks about it, Maggie was always light on the make-up, with her nails always untouched. Jackson pulls out a few slices of fat Texas toast and starts lathering them up in the mix, humming under his breath. He could get used to this. He could get _more_ than used to this. Maggie's weighed and measured this new development these past few weeks, figuring out her work schedule and how it sits amid the tangle of her sister's lifestyles. He'd been happy when she said yes, of course, but right now that yes has swelled _fifty times_ its original size and is threatening to make him burst.

God, he could get used to this.

"I miss Mom."

Jackson pauses.

"Mom can't eat lunch here. She cooks really good. She can't make me breakfast because she flies on planes to go all over the place and save people, but she cooks, with Daddy, and they make me ravioli and cupcakes." A short pause, broken by the _pop_ of a bottle cap. "Do you like ravioli and cupcakes?"

A blanket of silence settles over the apartment. Heavy enough to cloak the warm mood to nearly nothing, and heavy press down on his shoulders and lower his gaze to the food sizzling in front of him. The cords of his throat grow hot and heavy, as if the iron pan has switched places with his flesh. This reaction of his, it's...good. At least, it's _supposed_ to be better than the instinctual numbness (even though he can hardly breath through the feeling). Jackson reaches for his phone with a shaking hand and takes a moment to punch in a note. Day. Time. Trigger.

Maggie, for the third time and no doubt counting, doesn't respond immediately. The silence frosts into a chill.

"Y-Yeah." She stutters, jumping around the syllables as if she's shivering, too. "Yeah, I _love_ ravioli. With lots of cheese on top." A second of quiet. Two. Three. "Cupcakes, too."

"Mountain of cheese. That's my favorite. House made out of cheese!"

"On the cupcakes?"

A giggle.

"Nooo, on the _ravioli_."

"Oh, sorry, sweetheart. I'll...remember that."

Something's cracked the joy, but he can't for the life of him figure out where or why. He needs to do something. Say something. _Anything_. The only thing worse than saying the wrong thing is nothing at all, he _knows_ this, yet his mouth won't so much as twitch. The adrenaline sours into a guilt, then, at the hasty shuffle behind him.

"I-I'm sorry, Harriet. I'll be right back, okay? Keep blowing on those nails."

Then, before he can so much as blink, Maggie's gone.

Jackson turns off the sink and sucks in a deep breath. That motion alone feels like it's going to shatter his lungs into plastic fireworks. He knows what just happened. He knows more than he can _say_, a truth that sits in his bones and is as much apart of him as anything he's ever had. It's a hurt they've shared. A hurt he almost laid claim to, just a handful of months ago that manifests as yesterday's nightmares. As if summoned that same weakness ripples through him. Starting from his fluttering heart all the way to his knees.

Maggie's mother had been...one of the kindest people he's _ever_ met.

It quickly became no mystery how Maggie turned out the way she did. How could she be _anything_ else, when Diane spun everyday gestures into gold and plucked impossible truths out of thin air like ripe fruit? From the first moment he encountered her in the hospital lobby there was a different current in the air. A tenderness making sweet the breeze, that maybe he could've put words to if his head hadn't been stuffed full of numbers, dates and bedside manner protocol. This incredible woman...she smiled at him like an old friend and talked to him like a student. Somehow like Mark, somehow nothing like him whatsoever. Contradiction after contradiction, each one he drank down with gratitude.

Even in the deepest throes of her illness, she'd seen something of the sort in _him_. A tenderness worthy of Maggie. Of a genius, a hard worker, an aunt and a sister and a dear friend. God, he still couldn't wrap his head around Diane's divine timing. His treating her daughter warmly hadn't been an obligation on his part. It wasn't obligation on _her_ part, or desperation, or anything like that. No, Diane had _seen_ something between them. Something he and Maggie, at the time, hadn't even put a single vowel to.

Diane, who blessed them. Diane, who went out on a blessing.

_"How do you get anything done being as handsome as you are?"_

_Jackson doesn't take his eyes off the monitor, but he can feel her smile. He chuckles through his nose and reaches up and over the bed to adjust the room's temperature. Her illness made even a lukewarm air feel unbearable._

_"I...won't pretend it's difficult. Batting my lashes is a great tool to use when I want all the best surgeries."_

_Diane huffs and waves a dismissive hand. Jackson grins and turns around fully, even though the temporary cheer brittles at the sight of her. The necessary detachment of being a doctor may be made of powerful stuff, but it wasn't bulletproof. He always learns this lesson anew when he least expects it, up to and including a pistol held to his face with his fingers in the chest of a dear friend. Right now all that he knows to hold firm has cracked and crumbled, at the weary resignation in Diane's eyes and how they hold him firm._

_"Do me a favor, then, handsome."_

_She tries to reach for her bag on the chair. Jackson picks it up and hands it to her. Diane pulls a box out of it, sliding off the top and holding it out to him. He peers inside...then slowly leans back. It's a photo album._

_"Give these to her when she needs it." The trust in her smile is somehow more delicate than any surgery he's ever completed. "I trust you."_

A sharp _clatter_ rings out. Jackson jerks around...then shudders a sigh when he sees the source of the sound: Harriet had dropped one of the nail polish bottles (thankfully closed) and is now trying to place it neatly back on the table. She's blissfully unaware of the wrecking ball of her words, bouncing to the song playing as she works diligently at mixing colors. Jackson turns back around, wipes off his hands thoroughly with the dishrag...then presses them both to his mouth and crushes his eyes shut. His body is trying to choke a selfish urge out of him, the threat of hot and sudden tears throbbing in his temple, and it takes every last bone in his body to keep them at bay.

He witnessed the loss of someone's mother...and he'd almost lost _his_ mother. He almost felt that forever weight, squeezing out his lungs with a merciless heel and reducing him to a blubbering little boy with a scraped knee. Maggie had _still_ been under that heel when she sat with him throughout Catherine's entire surgery. He's still so fucking grateful to her, even though he wouldn't have blamed her for a second if she had needed space. That gratitude is muffled under the grieving and the helpless empathy, as much as he desperately wishes it weren't. God, he's being _fucking_ selfish right now. He shouldn't be standing here claiming someone else's tragedy.

He knows this, but the heat is squeezing out to trickle over his knuckles, anyway. Jackson mentally thanks his foresight when the next song Alexa plays is more uptempo, _just_ loud enough to let him catch the hoarse sob in his palm.

Picture frames he's tried to keep under lock and key bloom back to life behind his eyelids. The sight of his mother on the operating table, strewn out like a corpse and surrounded by doctors draped in white in an angelic analogy that felt _too_ apt. Webber and Maggie, side-by-side like angels of his own, their presence an anchor he couldn't yet appreciate through the haze. The fear fantasies of an empty house. An empty heart. An empty _life_. He'd almost felt it...then he'd been _spared_. God had found a reason to keep his mother's heart beating for a while yet, or maybe that had been the plan all along.

To put him in this position of having a taste, to humble him when the detachment of the medical field threatened to turn him to glass. A little taste of oblivion to make sure he remembered what mattered, manifesting in a weak-kneed helplessness that made him want to fall to the ground and melt into salt. All brutal, essential ingredients to balance out his status and his wealth when they threatened to cloud his good sense. That has to be the case, even though he doesn't know. He _never_ will. God was part of his life now, and so were His millions of questions. That meant he had to add sense to what _shouldn't make sense_.

Samuel had been a lesson. Diane had been a reminder.

These aren't sentiments he can share with Maggie. Not when she didn't believe, nor wanted to. He doesn't want to change that. Christ, he'd be a filthy hypocrite if he even _tried_, when his atheism began all the way back when he was entering high school. Who knows. Maybe life would knock the wind out of him again and he'd go right back to it, though the thought _alone_ feels blasphemous. Jackson swallows thickly, then turns on the kitchen sink so he can blow his nose and clear his throat without alarming Harriet. Hell, he's already blasphemed. He was mourning Diane, here with his daughter and his still-living mother, when he'd known her for less than a month.

But..._fuck_...if he didn't miss her, anyway.

_"If this isn't something you feel comfortable with..."_

_She looks...so tired. Jackson takes her hand, and tries not to think about how it shakes._

_"Of course I will."_

The song ends, and a quieter one takes its place. Like the sun peering out behind a cloud the misery cracks and he's abruptly, coldly aware.

He didn't even see where Maggie _went_. Just her footsteps and the sudden absence of her presence, sharp as a clap. Jackson coughs and scrubs his fist beneath his nose, looking at the oven clock. It's just been twenty-one minutes, which alarms him enough to punch in another hasty note into his phone. It felt like an _hour_. When he jogs through the living room he sees Harriet's knocked over one of the nail polish bottles again, this time open and seeping sparkling blue all over the spotless rug. Jackson gives her curls a quick ruffle, steps over the mess and heads up the stairs.

She's not in the bathroom. Not outside (at least, he _thinks_, since she parked her car so far away). He glances out the window at the balcony, only to find it's empty, too. Come to think of it, the front door didn't open when she left. She was definitely inside. The only other place she could be is...

"Maggie?"

His weary relief spikes back up again as the details settle into place. Maggie is sitting on the far edge of their bed, where the weak spring light from the window can't quite reach. A slumped pink note against the slate gray and brown. That same iron heat fills his throat again, itching his eyes and scratching at the awful numbness he tries to keep in the corners of his mind. Jackson tamps it all down, pushing a soft smile into his voice and leaning in the doorway.

"...Hey."

She takes in a huge, shuddering breath. He can just make out her reaching up to scrub at her face, again, again, again. Jackson swallows thickly (like swallowing a bruise) and tries again.

"Maggie...?"

She shakes her head. Hunches down again, until the pink is drowned into shadow. He just hears one sound. A hundred tons of hurt packed into three, wet, tired syllables.

"..._Oh, Jackson._"

It's bad. Worse than bad. Everything about her _sinks_ the room around him, makes him wish he were dreaming instead. Jackson leans out of the doorway again. He needs to check on Harriet, but he needs to check on _her_. After a moment's deliberation he turns and jogs down the hallway, to where his daughter is now playing with one of the sparkle bottles. It's all over the floor, too, but he can worry about that later.

Harriet squeaks curiously when he picks her up and sets her on his hip.

"Sweetheart, hey. Come with me for a minute." It's all over her face _and_ hair. He sighs and ruffles her curls. "That's an interesting new look."

"I got hit by a sparkle comet." She presses a sparkly thumb into his beard. "Where's Mags? I wanna show her the strawberry heart."

"She's in the bedroom, baby. Come on. Just a minute, then we can eat."

The walk back to the bathroom also feels like an hour. Maybe two. His world is a little fuzzy now, which his therapist might say is some form of dissociation, though he can't for the _life_ of him figure out why. This isn't his pain. Not...exactly. Certainly not quite as much. Harriet flicks sparkles off her fingers, then pats his jaw and tries to turn his head to face her.

"Daddy? Daddy, look." He angles his head a little. "Daddy, are you crying?"

Jackson smiles at her, and kisses her forehead.

"A little, sweetheart." He opens the door to the bedroom. "...A little."

Maggie turns around this time, only to hastily turn right back around when she sees Harriet. Jackson's chest twinges guiltily. He sets her down, then kneels down.

"Is she crying?" The girl sounds completely lost, looking up at him and rocking on her feet nervously.

"Just hold on, okay? Let me talk to her."

Harriet's dark eyes swim with confusion. She doesn't talk, hovering by the door and puffing on her newly painted nails. Maggie is already shaking her head when he sits beside her. Already cooking up an apology she doesn't need.

"I'm sorry. God, I'm..." She tries, choked in a way that suggests she's been crying non-stop. Jackson shakes his head firmly, squeezing her knee. "We've been planning this for weeks and I just-"

"No, no, don't apologize. Maggie, if you need to go, I can..." He rolls his mouth together, trying to edit the words as best he can in the timespan. "Not that I _want_ you to go. I don't. But...please. Talk to me. Tell me what you need."

Maggie chuckles wetly, mouth shivering with the rest still bottled up. She doesn't touch him, or pull away, or do anything that could prompt him into something helpful. Just sniffles and shakes as if she's about to blow away in the breeze. It feels like he's missed a step going down the stairs, her next word the handrail he needs to keep from wrecking the entire day. Viewing this like a doctor's table isn't how he wants to go about things, but...he has to say something. Anything. Jackson takes in a deep breath and backtracks through all the little details of the day. The lone clue left amid it all.

They were talking so much. Doing so much. He looks to his daughter still by the door, then back to Maggie.

"Was it..." He starts, softly. "...her bringing up April?"

Maggie's mouth scrunches, bobs her head in a way that doesn't _quite_ feel like a yes or a no. The thing is, his ex-wife has been brought up in casual conversations before, and she's _never_ reacted like this. Was it April being referred to as a mother? She's heard that before, too, and he's completely lost at sea. He's been told triggers are sometimes inconsistent. Like a slight migraine and a debilitating one, ebbing and flowing depending on a hundred other details in the day. He thinks back to that dim expression from before, as much as it hurts , and tries again.

"Is it...make-up? Should I not buy any next time?"

Her puffy eyes crush shut again. He's closer, he can taste it, and he keeps his mouth shut tight to let her work through whatever is on the tip of her tongue.

"...It was the nail polish."

Jackson blinks. Maggie sniffs and wipes her nose on her sleeve, staring at the wall.

"It's...It's funny. Zola actually asked me if I missed...if I missed my mom. When, um...Izzie was in surgery. I told her I do, every day, and she said...ha, she said that even though she's gone, she's...always with me, too." Her next laugh cracks like glass, and he's sure, then and there, his heart breaks. "It's so...cliche. Like something out of a Disney movie, and she's right, but..." Maggie slowly covers her face, fingers digging into her scalp. "...it's not the _same_."

Jackson reaches around and pulls her close, wrapping both arms around her shoulders letting Maggie crumble into his chest.

"I want my mom, Jackson." She bawls. "I want to _see_ her. I want to see her so _bad_."

Jackson buries his nose into her hair, petting the nape of her neck and humming soft notes in the back of his burning throat to let her know he's listening. He's _here_, for as long as he'll be able to, and he won't go anywhere without a fight. Maggie bunches his shirt in her hands, hits a weak fist against his chest, helpless motions that strike harder than any blow he's taken.

"And it's _my_ fault, I pushed her past her _limits_-"

"It wasn't your fault." He whispers, kissing her curls in-between breaths. "You were trying to help. Diane _knew_ that. She _knew_."

Time slows down again, and this time he doesn't fight it. Jackson rocks Maggie from side-to-side like he did Samuel, and he does Harriet. Burns to ash inside, because it's the least that can be done. He turns his head only when his daughter drifts away from the door, up to the side of the bed. Maggie is so far gone she can hardly compose herself enough to speak, reaching out a wet hand to pat the little girl's shoulder. As if to say, "_I know this looks bad, but it's not you._"

"...Mags?" Harriet mumbles, twisting her twinkly fingers together. "Did I make you cry?"

It takes Maggie a few minutes. Jackson thinks Harriet's surprising patience is something she got from both her mother _and_ father. She stands as still as any practiced surgeon, one tiny hand on Maggie's other knee.

"No, baby. No, you...you didn't make me cry." Maggie manages a red, wet smile. "My mother and I, we...painted each other's nails. On her last day, when we were in the hospital. It just made me think of her...and I just really, really missed her."

His breath grinds to a halt halfway between his chest and throat. ..._Oh_. Harriet's brown eyes flick between them. Hurting, on her behalf, and wondering and confused and so many, many things.

"Zola misses her daddy. She told me when we were doing puzzles at the hospital."

Maggie nods, smiles again, though that act looks like it hurts her so much.

"Yeah. She's talked to me about him, too."

Harriet nods and looks back down at her half-finished nails. Little spots of pink and red.

"If you don't want to paint nails we can watch a movie instead. You can have my strawberries. Even the heart one."

A good damn kid. Jackson reaches down to ruffle her hair...then goes cold.

"...Oh my god." He gapes to Maggie. "_The food_."

Jackson gets up and bolts to the kitchen...then immediately covers his mouth when he gets a faceful of smoke. _Shit!_ From what he can see through the gray the French toast is charred unrecognizable. Just as he's wondering why the hell the fire alarm isn't working it goes off, blaring so loud his head rings. Jackson doesn't bother to clutch his ears, rushing up to the stove and turning it off, right when a growing flame pops up from the charred remains of their brunch-to-be. Maggie rushes into the kitchen with Harriet in one arm, the other covering her eyes.

"_I'll grab some water!_" She yells. Jackson rushes over to open one of the windows, waving a hand at her.

"_No, no, don't do that, it'll hit the oil and spatter-_"

"_Here, here, I'll look up-_" Maggie fumbles for something on the table. "_What's your phone's password?_"

"_Why **my** phone?_"

"_Because mine's charging!_"

Harriet is covering her ears, face scrunching up and on the verge of crying. Jesus Christ in a handbasket. The open window is venting some of the smoke, but the stovetop fire is starting to rise high enough to singe the wallpaper. He rubs at his streaming eyes and contemplates the flicker of fire starting to blink in all corners of his vision, a similar flicker of numbness settling in from one too many hospital tragedies survived. This isn't bad. It's good, considering all that's happened. He's recognizing symptoms. He's still _here_.

Jackson makes a quick mental note as he promptly ushers his family out the door and down the hallway.

***

Double cheese and double pepperoni? Check.

Scrabble game and a back-up Candyland game? Check.

His family, whole and safe and on either side of him? Check, check and check.

Yeah, time is still a little funny. Two hours later -- and after an embarrassing conversation with two unamused firemen -- they're on Meredith's porch working their way through a box of pizza. He could've sworn he was _just_ at his apartment, apologizing to a dozen residents for not paying attention to brunch. Meredith was a sweetheart when they showed up out of the blue, giving Harriet a check-up to make sure she wasn't showing any signs of smoke inhalation. The newly granted paranoia of being a father means he was going to take her to the physician later, anyway, but he appreciates it. This household remained an oasis of sanity in a life filled with mundane madness.

Jackson jerks out of his thoughts when Maggie elbows him in the side.

"Why does it always come down to pizza?" She snorts. Jackson grins and helps himself to another slice.

"I fucking _love_ pizza."

"We're going to have to come up with a new period clause. I say...fondue."

Far too late Jackson winces and looks to his daughter. Any hopes she'd be too distracted to notice his slip-up are quickly dashed when he sees Harriet blinking their way, peeling open one of the ranch cups.

"That's a _bad_ word." She states. He tries a smile.

"Uh, maybe...don't tell mom about that."

"Okay. But the Bible said bad words are bad and you have to say sorry to Jesus."

Jackson and Maggie look to each other. He sighs, pulls out his phone and punches in a note about _that_ future fight. Just in case. Maggie reaches for another slice, then bumps comfortably against his side, legs stretched out and ankles knotted together. Jackson coughs out the last bits of exposure out of his lungs.

"I can't believe this is the fourth fire I've been apart of. Starting to wonder if I should switch over to the fire department." He coughs into his shoulder again. "On second thought, never mind."

"I can't believe talking about my mom is what _caused_ the fire." She mutters around the garlic crust. Jackson considers for a second, then curls his legs to better snuggle closer to her.

"Just means your love for her burns as brightly as ever."

Maggie blinks at him.

"...Oh my _god_. That was so corny." She tries to push him away. Jackson promptly leans on her in an affectionate deadweight. "No. I'm _not_ going to laugh at that. I refuse."

"Not even a little?"

"Nope." She accepts defeat and lets him nuzzle his nose into her hair, rolling her eyes up to the sky. "Sorry about him, Mom. His surgery game's good, but his pun game is _horrible_."

Better than he could have hoped for, all things considered. Jackson grins and kisses her neck, earning an annoyed _ew_ from Harriet. She promptly runs off inside (to confer with Zola on how gross adults are, no doubt) leaving them alone on the porch. Maggie takes a napkin and mops off her fingers.

"Um...I really am sorry for all that." She mumbles, crumpling it up and stuffing it into one of the empty boxes. Jackson curls an arm around her waist and kisses her ear.

"You have nothing to apologize for." Another kiss, below her jaw. "Nothing."

"I mean, I know you can afford it, it's not that. It's just..."

"I know what you meant, and I stand by what I said."

The cocoon between her neck and hair is warm as a blanket. Maggie's pulse slows beneath his lips as he adds a sequel, then two, then three, her gaze in a limbo between aching and content. For now, it'll have to do. Jackson cradles her close and sends a little mental thank-you up above. To God, for seeing fit to grant him islands of peace in the turbulent seas. To Diane, for stubbornly blessing them both, from her best days to her dying breaths.

To all he has, and all he hopes to keep...for as long as possible.

*

_and this one's for you_

_especially you, 'cause you gave me the blue water_

_so that I could dive in it, made up my mind_

_and I do all of this for you_

**Author's Note:**

> _give these characters more therapy 2K19-2K20 please and thanks_
> 
> just kidding, season sixteen is a trash fire of inconsistent, puddle shallow writing and I'll be lucky if I get more than three decent episodes out of the entire thing
> 
> I want to see Maggie, Jackson and Harriet in a meaningful scene so _badly_. It's already an interesting set-up, seeing Maggie -- used to being an auntie or a sister -- acting out a more motherly role. Likewise, Jackson hasn't had many opportunities for a wholesome family atmosphere with his daughter, what with the whole 'messy divorce and losing a child' thing. But, nah. Let's just nosedive for rushed conclusions, cheap love triangles and a thousand pregnancies. Because _primetime._ Bless fanfiction.
> 
> [If you're interested in more, I have another (two-part) Jackson and Maggie fic here. I may or may not turn all of these into a series, but until then...enjoy!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20829947/chapters/49515704)


End file.
